The Beds We Make
by Double Dog
Summary: It's the last place Wilson can go and still protect House. Takes place shortly after Son of A Coma Guy.


For all of House's vaunted powers of observation, it took him a week to realize that Wilson was living in his office. Every night when the lights went out next door and the heavy door clicked solidly shut, House had simply assumed Wilson had left for the day. It wasn't until later, when he put two and two together and got three that he remembered he'd never actually seen Wilson walk out the door. 

It wasn't until he sneaked into Wilson's office at five in the morning that he knew the truth.

He had been there all night, trying to figure out the diagnosis, failing again and again. He had driven his team without mercy, at one point cracking his cane hard across the conference room desk, demanding they come up with an answer. When the answer had finally come at 4:30, the patient stable at last, he'd let them go home. For a long moment, he had sat there, until the growling of his stomach reminded him of a missed dinner.

_Wilson_, he thought. _Wilson always has food._ Sure, it was healthy crap -- apples and raisins, with the occasional tasteless granola bar thrown in, but Wilson's office was closer than the hospital cafeteria and whatever he found there would tide him over until he could have a real breakfast from Mickey D's. Moving quickly, he hopped the low balcony wall that separated their two offices and opened Wilson's door. And found himself staring straight at Wilson.

Both men froze; House just inside the door, Wilson in the act of folding up a blanket.

"House? What are you doing here?"

House regarded his friend. Wilson was dressed in wrinkled scrub pants and a gray McGill t-shirt. His hair was tousled and he squinted at House if he weren't quite awake. House let his glance drift down. There was a pillow on Wilson's couch.

"I might ask you the same thing," he said at last.

Wilson's eyebrows crept up at the inanity of this response. "Considering it's _my_ office, I'd say I have every right to be here." He seemed to realize the blanket was still in his hands and resumed folding it, arranging it into a neat square. "What's your excuse?"

"Isn't that one of my blankets?"

Wilson blinked and looked down. It was an old blanket, soft with little pills where the navy-blue wool was wearing thin. A faded satin border was stitched around the four sides. "I ... guess it is," Wilson said. "You here to take it back?"

"Don't be ridiculous," House snapped. He moved forward and took a seat in one of the guest chairs. "I was working all night. The question was why are _you_ here? Your first appointment isn't until 9:30."

"Came in early," Wilson said, turning away and laying the folded blanket on the sofa arm. "Thought I'd go for a run."

House lifted his cane and rested the tip on Wilson's left foot. His _bare_ left foot. "Need some running shoes for that activity, don't you think?" He tapped Wilson's ankle, very gently, and Wilson moved his foot away.

"What do you want, House?" Wilson sat down on the couch, his elbows on his knees, and rubbed at his face with both hands.

Instead of answering immediately, House looked around the office. An overnight case stood in the corner behind the door, hidden from the casual observer. A leather dop kit was on the desk, seeming to crouch behind the pencil holder. A pillow, a blanket ...

"You're sleeping here," House said decisively. "More than that, you're _living_ here."

Wilson dropped his hands and stared at House for a moment, then reached for the pillow and started fluffing it.

"Wilson?" Wilson didn't answer, and House leaned closer. "Hey! Wilson! What's going on here?"

Wilson dropped the pillow on his lap and glared at him. "What's going on here? What do you _think's_ going on here? My accounts are frozen, my credit cards are over the limit, and the hotel kicked me out. How's that for what's going on?" He squeezed the pillow, hands closed tight in a convulsive grip.

House stared at him. "You don't have to do _this_," he said. "You could've moved back in with me!"

Wilson shook his head. "You still don't get it, do you?" Leaning back, he ran a hand through his hair and then covered his eyes for a moment. "The over-prescribing dealer moves in with his addicted junkie best friend. Yeah, let's just go to Tritter now, tell him we'll plead guilty to whatever he wants. Maybe the judge'll go easy on us -- you'll get six years and I'll get ten instead of twenty-five to life!" Wilson raised his head from the back of the couch. "Any other brilliant suggestions?"

House looked down and away. It was suddenly very hard to meet Wilson's eyes. "What about Cuddy?"

A cynical snort greeted the suggestion. "Yeah, because bunking with my boss is such a brilliant career move. Of course, that's assuming I still _have_ a career, which is seriously in doubt at the moment."

"Your brother?"

"Commute from Piscataway every morning?" His barked laugh sounded more like a sob. "Plus there's the kick Jon would get out of telling our parents their perfect son was being investigated by the cops, the DEA, and whoever else wants to crucify me." There was a long silence, and after a while Wilson swiped at his eyes. Shifting position, he lay back down on the couch and flung one arm over his eyes. "Go home, House," he said tiredly. "Just go home."

House sat for a moment longer, then pushed himself up. Moving slowly, he left Wilson's office.

vvvvvvvvvvvvv

Wilson woke up slowly the next morning. He was getting used to the sofa, although it still made his back hurt sometimes. Turning over, he pulled the blanket tighter and nuzzled his face into the pillow. More meetings with the lawyers today, depositions, questions, alibis -- he sighed. If they all got out of this with their skins intact it would be a miracle. At least the coffee smelled good.

His head jerked up. _The coffee?_ Raising himself up on one elbow, he rubbed the sleep from his eyes. In front of him, on the low office table, was a white bag with a familiar, iconic red and gold logo. The deliciously greasy bacon-and-egg smell of a breakfast muffin was emanating from it, and Wilson could feel his arteries clogging just from the aroma. A tall cup stood next to it, the scent of dark-roasted coffee beans swirling up in the steam. There was something yellow stuck to both items. Wilson squinted. Post-It notes, with messages scrawled in a hand he knew all too well.

On the paper bag -- _Eat me_. On the pasteboard coffee cup -- _Drink me_.

Wilson sat up, smiling. Maybe, just _maybe_, they'd get through this.

fin


End file.
